Last night I flew to Tibet. On breathy wind-swept tendrils of longing, each soul among us floated up the jagged mountain, recalling the gentle tinkle of tinny bells punctuating the dry air I haven’t breathed for more lifetimes than I can name. I heard the steady plod of yak hoofs over broken stones, while tears of bittersweet memory and heartfelt empathy slid slowly down my face.
And still I was transported. Immediately, surely, like the smoke of long lost fires, I floated into each butter-lit home to see the turquoise and coral colors of my beguiling, beloved, sacred Lhasa. Soul seed that sent down roots uncountable eons before this meager moment.
Before the unspeakable horror of great, red dragons daring to eat the sacred phoenix, and with the vile and violent arrogance of ignorance and greed, crunched our brittle, butter-built bones while the blood dripped off their incisors. The oxygen-rich, deep red elixir squeezed, crushed and shot from veins seeping, exploded, or torn as armored tanks ground up our precious, fragile, and tentative soil. The people scattered like gentle ants, some surviving. Always, a tenacious few who survive, looking to His Holiness, who now holds the woe of Tutsi and Hutu and beloved, twinkling Tutu, expanded beyond reckoning by the deadly diaspora. Such painful irony that deep pain deepens and expands the heart.
And still, that beautiful, smiling man, with so much love and gentleness in his generous and kindred heart, blew his lifebreath into each fragrant flutesong. And with each sinuous note, stilled our hearts to one, conjoined rhythm, as he painted sound pictures of gratitude and love for the tropical emeralds, vibrant crimsons, and watery azures now woven into his eager reckoning.
Who can tell what should not be? The world breeds violence and hate with the same blind commitment that it breeds beauty and splendor. As always the choice lies within.
And still I was transported. Immediately, surely, like the smoke of long lost fires, I floated into each butter-lit home to see the turquoise and coral colors of my beguiling, beloved, sacred Lhasa. Soul seed that sent down roots uncountable eons before this meager moment.
Before the unspeakable horror of great, red dragons daring to eat the sacred phoenix, and with the vile and violent arrogance of ignorance and greed, crunched our brittle, butter-built bones while the blood dripped off their incisors. The oxygen-rich, deep red elixir squeezed, crushed and shot from veins seeping, exploded, or torn as armored tanks ground up our precious, fragile, and tentative soil. The people scattered like gentle ants, some surviving. Always, a tenacious few who survive, looking to His Holiness, who now holds the woe of Tutsi and Hutu and beloved, twinkling Tutu, expanded beyond reckoning by the deadly diaspora. Such painful irony that deep pain deepens and expands the heart.
And still, that beautiful, smiling man, with so much love and gentleness in his generous and kindred heart, blew his lifebreath into each fragrant flutesong. And with each sinuous note, stilled our hearts to one, conjoined rhythm, as he painted sound pictures of gratitude and love for the tropical emeralds, vibrant crimsons, and watery azures now woven into his eager reckoning.
Who can tell what should not be? The world breeds violence and hate with the same blind commitment that it breeds beauty and splendor. As always the choice lies within.
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